Daddy's Little Girl
by The Layabout
Summary: "There was that peculiar look again, the same one she got when she took things apart, when she broke them."


Cassidy, or Cassie as her brothers and father would call her, had always had a penchant for sweets, especially ice cream. Vanilla was her favorite. It wasn't as exciting as strawberry or popular like chocolate, but she preferred the simplicity of it. She didn't like complex things. She didn't know why—perhaps she was simply destructive by nature—but she had this urge to take such things apart when she saw them, to _break_ them.

Her father took things apart too at his job. He'd taken her there once, and she had been overwhelmed. The mascots were such big, funny-looking things filled with a multitude of parts both big and small—parts whose functions she could never begin to understand. And she hated that . . . not understanding.

"Don't touch that, Cassie," her father would say as if he'd read her mind. She always wondered how he knew. The answer was the same each time: "Because you're Daddy's little girl."

Not only did he take things apart, he put things together too. Parts for the mascots at the pizzeria and toys for her to play with at home. Cassidy didn't know how he could bear it. All those parts would have driven her crazy! They reminded her of a jigsaw puzzle.

She hated those too.

Naturally, she'd break them soon after they had been gifted to her. It would have been more surprising if she hadn't. Her father would dutifully put them back together again. The latest in a long line had been a pink and white fox. It came apart easily—too much for her liking—and she'd handed the doll to her father, feigning innocence as always, complaining that the joints were too loose, that it just came apart in her hands. "You'll fix it, won't you, Daddy?"

He would smile. He always did with this peculiar look in his eye. "Of course, sweetie."

Cassidy knew toys didn't feel pain, but she liked to pretend they did as she wrenched their arms and legs from their sockets. Sometimes when she'd broken all her toys, she would break her little brother Fritz's toys too. He would cry. He always cried. It was a wonder he hadn't shriveled into a raisin, the blubbering little crybaby.

Fritz cried so much that everyone, even the teachers at school, tended to ignore him. So when a couple of older boys cornered him by the swing set at recess, no one batted an eye.

Cassidy knew the two boys—Donovan and Isaiah, a pair of troublemakers in her grade who were joined at the hip. From the sandbox where she and another girl had been playing, she saw them push him down and his head catch against the seat of the right swing sending it backward into the air as he fell. Fritz curled in on himself and wailed, while Donovan and Isaiah stood over him laughing.

She shot up from the sandbox, startling the girl next to her, and charged over. "Hey!" she shouted, and they jumped. Fritz rose up from where he lay, rubbing at his eyes, then hissing after he'd gotten dirt in them.

"Go away, Cassidy!" Donovan said.

"Yeah, can't you see we're busy with Shitz?" Isaiah said, snickering. That was what they liked to call him. They had similar names for everyone—rude names that played on curse words which were their favorite kinds of words. They were too stupid to learn anything else.

"Leave him alone!" She stomped her feet. "Or I'll tell!"

"You better not!"

"Let him up."

Isaiah scrunched up his nose, then turned to Donovan who mirrored his expression.

"We don't wanna."

"Whaddya gonna do about it?"

She shoved Isaiah, and he cracked his head against the metal pole. Donovan tackled her to the ground, twisting and pulling her hair.

By some miracle, Fritz had stopped crying. "Cassie!" He scrambled to his feet, pushing past the swing and stepping over Isaiah who lay holding his head to begin beating on Donovan's back.

"You little shit!" he snarled. Fritz flinched away and stumbled onto his backside, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

" _I'm bleeding!_ " Isaiah shrieked, drawing theirs and everyone else's attention. He drew his hand from the back of his head, and his palm was all bloody.

Donovan's eyes went wide, then he whirled on Cassidy. "Look at what you did!"

"I-I didn't . . . you . . . Fritz."

"I'm gonna tell."

000

Isaiah's mother was the first to arrive. She'd burst into the office. Her eyes landed on Cassidy, Fritz, and Donovan seated on a row of plastic blue chairs along the wall, their gazes low. She was a stout woman with the same and round face and upturned nose Isaiah had obviously inherited. But unlike her son whose youth allowed him a more cherubic appearance, her cheeks and mouth had begun to sag and droop giving her an unpleasant look.

Before the principal could explain the situation, she began hollering. "Where is my Isaiah?!"

"Mrs. Thomas, if you'd just—"

"Where is my baby? What's happened to him?"

Donovan's father, Mr. Tucker, arrived alongside Cassidy's looking confusedly at the scene before them.

"Regina, what on earth—?" questioned Mr. Tucker.

"It's your fault!"

"M-mine?"

"That boy of yours is nothing but a bad influence!" She waved her arms about. Cassidy thought she might have taken flight had she not been so fat. "Every time I receive a call from the school, it's because _your_ son's dragged _mine_ into trouble!"

Mr. Tucker sputtered.

"And you, William!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you! Control your brats! Do they even know what a belt is? Why, if I had my way, I'd—!"

"You'd _what_ , Mrs. Thomas?" He arched a brow, some unspoken threat glinting in his eyes. Both Cassidy and Fritz flinched, all too familiar with that particular look. He cleared his throat, catching himself. He even ducked his head, feigning embarrassment as he pretended to fidget with his tie.

Mrs. Thomas had turned an unflattering puce, her hands balled into fists at her side, but remained silent otherwise.

"I'm terribly sorry, Regina," he said. "You're right. I assure you they'll be take care of once they get home."

"Daddy!"

"They started it! Me and Cassie didn't do nothin!"

" _Hush!_ " He hissed.

Mrs. Thomas sniffed. "Let's hope."

"And if you don't mind, I'll take Michael as well."

The principal gave a curt nod.

As her father towed her out of the office, Donovan stuck his tongue out as she passed and received a prompt slap upside the head from his father. Fritz was on their heels, head hanging as he worried the hem of his shirt. They waited by the receptionist's desk for Michael who was supposed to be in class but had been found in the library with three other boys. Her father hadn't even bothered to say anything when he'd come stalking up, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders drawn.

The drive home was far too quick for her liking. Michael and Fritz had gotten out, the smaller boy seemingly forgetting their predicament as he fled into the house after Michael claimed to "have something for him." Cassidy remained buckled in. She hadn't done anything wrong. It was Donovan and Isaiah! _They_ started it. _They_ pushed Fritz down. What if it had been him and not Isaiah who had been cut by the bolt on the swing? With Fritz's luck, he'd have somehow wound up brain-damaged and in the hospital clinging to life.

Her father went round the car and opened the door. He knelt down, flashing her a soft smile. "I believe you, y'know."

She sniffled. "You do?"

"Of course."

"So . . . we're not in trouble?"

"No." He ruffled her hair.

She beamed.

"Cassie?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

"When you saw that boy was bleeding . . . did you think it was pretty . . . the color of the blood?"

Cassidy tilted her head. There was that peculiar look again, the same she got when she took things apart, when she broke them.

"Be honest."

"Yes."

"Of course you did," he grinned. "Do you know why?"

She shook her head.

"Because you're Daddy's little girl."


End file.
